


never have i turned

by thatgothlibrarian



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Based off a song, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Museums, Post-Divorce, Trans Male Character, Underage one-sided pining, [iron giant voice] ART!, trans!laurent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:33:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgothlibrarian/pseuds/thatgothlibrarian
Summary: Laurent deVere, an art historian, has yearned for Damianos Akielos since he was 18 years old when Mr Akielos was a student teacher in his art class. Now, at 35, divorced, Laurent gets an email that will change the course of his life forever.





	1. there i was in uniform

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brigitttt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brigitttt/gifts).



> This fic is inspired by the song "The Art Teacher" by Rufus Wainwright. Rufus Wainwright is a gay man, but this song is from the point of view of a middle-aged women who developed a crush on her high school art teacher and never could move on from it. As a gay trans man, the way Rufus plays with gender in the song really strikes me. _"I was just a girl then."_
> 
> Although there is some 17/18 year old pining for a 23 year old in this fic, none of it is reciprocated, and nothing untoward happens. It's not even a "I have a crush on a teacher and I hope he likes me back" kind of thing. 
> 
> In the high school bits, Laurent is Laurence, aka pre-transition (and even pre-realizing he's trans), but since those are past tense, I use he pronouns unless someone is speaking about him.
> 
> The main story will be in three chapters, with the fourth an incredibly short epilogue, unless I decide to put it at the end of chapter three. I will update tags and such as needed.
> 
> This is a gift to my lovely lavender wife Brigit/brigitttt, whose idea it was to create an AU of this song, but who said only I would be able to do it.

_There I was in uniform_  
_Looking at the art teacher_  
_I was just a girl then;_  
_Never have I loved since then_

 

_April. 2002. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York City, New York._

Laurent gazed up in wonder at the painting before him. _Madame X (Madame Pierre Gautreau), 1883–84, John Singer Sargent, American,_ the curatorial statement read. The woman in the portrait stood dead center, a black gown enveloping her, hiding most of her body from view yet emphasizing the alabaster skin of her chest and neck. Her right hand was placed tantalizingly on a table next to her, while her left held a fan coyly against her body; she looked over her left shoulder out of the frame to the right, her profile in stark contrast with the rich brown background. Laurent wanted to reach out to touch the fabric of her dress, the painter’s brush strokes smoothed into shiny satin and jeweled straps. He tore his eyes away and looked down at his own body: drab black Catholic school uniform, the color faded from too many washings; thin frame that provided no shape for his skirt to follow; the same alabaster skin but lacking her confident glow; nails bitten to the quick and darkened from the constant use of India ink and charcoal. In the presence of the grand portraits around him, Laurent felt inconsequential, incorporeal, as if he were less real for not being captured in oils like a mosquito in amber, preserved for eternity. He stood motionless, as frozen as Madame X, as people and time passed around him.

When he had taken art history as an elective his freshman year of high school, Laurent hadn’t quite understood portrait painting, didn’t see the appeal, instead falling in love with the dynamic drama of the Baroque artists like Caravaggio and their theatrical scenes rendered in _chiaroscuro_. But standing in Gallery 771, _Portraiture in the Grand Manner, 1880–1900_ , Laurent’s perspective changed. He finally moved on from Madame X, observing the other larger-than-life people depicted around him, extremely humbled and awestruck by their timeless affect and command. These people once lived and breathed, like him, yet someone decided to immortalize them, the ultimate act of love, of honor and fealty, whether the artist was conscious of that or not. What was it about them, Laurent wondered, that captivated the artist so. That man over there, had he and the artist been lovers? Rivals? And that woman across from him, had they been friends, or was she simply a wealthy patron?

“Hey, Laurence, there you are.” A full but gentle voice interrupted his reverie. Laurent spun around, startled for a moment before realizing who it was. “We were all supposed to meet up near the entrance 5 minutes ago.”

“Oh, sorry, Mr Akielos.” Laurent turned back to the painting he had been looking at, another Sargent. “I must have lost track of time.”

Mr Akielos approached Laurent, standing next to him in front of _The Wyndham Sisters_. He wasn’t that much older than Laurent, as he was in his final year of undergrad completing his student teaching requirement in Laurent’s senior year art class, for students doing independent study. As it is during class, Mr Akielos’ presence next to Laurent is overwhelming, lush and rich like the scene in the painting, the three women adorned in decadent off-white. Yet the sister in the back seemed unfinished, her gown a mess of brush strokes only hinting at anything real. Laurent could almost feel her dissolving away, likewise overwhelmed by how solid her sisters were in front of her on the sofa.

“I’m surprised to see you spending so much time in this gallery.” Mr Akielos’ voice cut through, keeping Laurent from fading like paint in turpentine. “I didn’t think you enjoyed portraits. You always seem to avoid them in your own work.”

“Mmm,” Laurent hummed in agreement. “It’s different seeing them up close, I think.” He saw Mr Akielos nod. “It’s like they’re really here. And with Sargent, seeing that line he dances between impressionism and realism, visible brush strokes alongside painstaking detail.” He turned towards Mr Akielos, hand gesturing vaguely to indicate the entire gallery. “I feel like I’m in his footsteps, almost, and I feel whatever he must have felt while painting these people.”

Mr Akielos smiled. “I love the way you describe it. Have you ever considered being an art historian or a critic? I think you’d have a knack for it.”

Laurent felt himself flush. Fuck, he didn’t need this right now. Mr Akielos was practically his teacher, and he never wanted to have that sort of power imbalance ever again; the thought alone made his stomach churn. “I hadn’t, no. I did like the class I took as an elective, but the descriptions felt so stiff and lifeless.” That earned him a slight chuckle.

“Nobody has ever said academic writing was what you would call stimulating. I’m surprised you decided to be an artist after that.”

“Mm.” Laurent picked at a hangnail.

“Before we head back to join the rest of the class, which one was your favorite? These must have struck a chord.”

Laurent hugged himself, turning to look around the gallery, carefully avoiding looking at Mr Akielos, until he finally had to make eye contact when answering. He immediately wished he hadn’t, however, as he got caught in Mr Akielos’ dark brown eyes, a brown so much more vibrant than any saturated primary color in the museum; that deep brown should cover canvases and statues like International Klein Blue, allowing people to get existentially lost, to empty the mind of everything that isn’t that color. Laurent felt warm, uncomfortable, ready to move on so as to not become another motionless body adorning the walls. But he couldn’t get away. Could never look away, not since Mr Akielos walked into his classroom back in August.

Laurent wanted to say all of this to him. His favorite piece of art? Why, couldn’t he see how plainly it was painted on Laurent’s face?

“Um, I like the John Singer Sargents, as I mentioned. In this gallery, I think it’s Madame X.” Laurent managed to glance back at the painting, resisting the undertow. “I thought it was interesting how he had to go back and edit the painting because the original with the fallen strap was too scandalous.”

Laurent says this, instead, because he could never tell Mr Akielos that Laurent's favorite work of art was him.

 

_April. 2018. A Townhouse. New York City, New York._

It’s a rainy Saturday morning in New York City. Laurent comes awake slowly, fighting against sleep like walking through sand. He’s still on his side of the bed, not yet in the habit of sleeping in the middle. The sheets are clean, new, smelling of nothing but soft cotton and Laurent’s own blend of hygiene products. The curtains are closed, but Laurent can hear the steady drizzle pelting against the windows, the light peeking through a dull gray. He turns onto his back, his silk pajamas sighing against the linens in a way he hasn’t for years. He feels a sinus headache coming on. He wants to go back to sleep, but knows he won’t be able to. Staring up at the ceiling, here in the muted dark of the morning, Laurent feels how alone he is. He is trying to decide how he feels about that. Is he happy? Is he sad? Angry?

Then, Laurent decides that he doesn’t feel much of anything.

How long has it been now, since Torveld left to be with Erasmus. Well, if it’s April now, it happened right before Christmas, so that’s almost four months. You would think Laurent would be used to waking up like this, by now.

Laurent reaches over and turns on his bedside lamp, sitting up back against his pillows and bolsters. He didn’t used to sleep with so many pillows, but he grew so used to there being another body in his bed that he has trouble sleeping without them. Laurent’s hips and lower back crack and pop as his body shifts. When did he start feeling so old? In his 20s, he hadn't thought being in his 30s would be that big of a deal. But it feels so much...he’s not sure how it feels, but it’s different, unexpected. He wipes the sleep from his eyes, noticing the bags and wrinkles. He’s not even 40, he thinks.

He grabs his glasses from his nightstand, putting the delicate wire frames over his ears, resting on the bridge of his nose. When his eyes finally focus, Laurent takes a moment to stare at the painting on the wall across from him. It’s small, less than 10 inches on each side. He should probably put more up on the walls around it, he thinks, but decides he likes the minimalism. Against the dark gray of his walls, the painting looks like something out of a nightmare. The lower left corner is a rough green, the brush strokes jagged on the canvas as if cut from stone, reluctantly taking form. The rest of the painting is various tones of beige, brown, and white. A bulbous cliff takes up most of the space, the forced perspective causing it to look like a ship coming toward you. Tintagel Castle sits perched on the top, almost an afterthought, fading into the background, back into the realm of legend. In the lower right corner, a ship is tossed in the waves crashing against the cliffs. This piece of art is tumultuous, violent. Today, Laurent can’t decide which part of the painting he identifies with the most. Some days, he’s the boat doomed to be broken on the rocks, others the immortal stone of the cliffs, daring you to pass through, knowing you will fail.

Torveld always hated this painting.

Ever since Laurent purchased _Tintagel Castle_ by Joseph Mallord William Turner at a private auction, Torveld did nothing but complain. It’s too small; it looks unfinished; it’s too much for our bedroom. Why _this_ one, Torveld would always ask.

_Because_ , Laurent would think, on his hands and knees staring forward at the painting as Torveld fucked him, _he told me he liked Turner._

Laurent lets his eyes skate over the sublime scene, allowing his mind to wander through pristine galleries and chalky classrooms. Always returning to him.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand, muted against the wood, and keeps vibrating so that it skates right off the table onto the floor. Laurent mutters a curse as he gets out of bed and retrieves it, registering that it is only 7 in the morning, and that he has several texts from Torveld, and also his lawyer. There is also an email, he notices, but it’s Saturday morning, and emails can wait at least until after he has his tea. Laurent slips into his house shoes to protect his feet from the cold wood floor, and grabs his silk dressing gown off his chaise lounge, shrugging it on as he walks out of his bedroom.

Their— _his_ , he corrects himself—his townhouse isn’t carpeted, and his footsteps seem to echo through the hallway as he makes his way to the kitchen. He has the passing thought, as he steams his milk, that he hasn’t brushed his teeth, or made his bed, but those are problems for later. Right now he’s too focused on making sure his tea is steeping at the correct temperature for the correct amount of time. This small ritual he does every morning, reverent as he pours the steamed milk into the hot tea, the simple perfection of his first cup of the day. He grabs the overnight oats he prepped from the fridge and sits down at his breakfast nook by the window.

For a moment he just sits there, not moving to take any bites or even sip his tea. It isn’t even that he is unused to eating breakfast alone. Far from it. Torveld always left earlier than him, needing to get downtown early to do whatever it was that CEOs did. Shout into phones, metaphorically wave his dick around. Fuck his secretary. Leave Laurent for that secretary.

Laurent shoves his oats away, scowling, the bowl making an ugly sound as it slides across the table. He honestly hadn’t been surprised when he walked in on them, the headboard of the bed Laurent and Torveld shared banging against the wall and shaking the only other painting in the room, Laurent’s prized Sargent portrait of his possible lover Albert de Belleroche. Laurent worried for half a second that the portrait might fall, that Belleroche would no longer gaze over the bed at the cliffs of Tintagel, but then the reality of what he was seeing sunk in. The life he had been building 5 years ended, just like that.

Torveld left that night. Laurent hadn’t even shouted at him. Their marriage ended long before that day. This just made them both aware of it.

Laurent gets up and puts the oats back into the fridge, then heads back to the nook, snuggling into the window seat with his tea and quilt. He doesn’t have the energy for one of his many books he keeps nearby, so he decides to scroll through his social media on his phone instead, and check those texts and emails when he has a little more focus. Nothing much interesting there, just more of the same: the world going to shit, art historians and other academics in his circle arguing over god knows what, his friends’ cute pet photos. Mindless scrolling, not really paying attention to what he’s looking at. Laurent gives up and opens his messaging app, skimming through the messages from Torveld and his lawyer. Torveld wants to drop the divorce papers off next week. Laurent’s lawyer wants him to know Torveld’s lawyer was in contact about the divorce papers, and that the papers should really be signed at an arranged meeting with both lawyers present.

Laurent runs his left thumb over the underside of his ring finger, absentmindedly, where his ring used to be.

He sighs and puts down his phone, looking out the window, holding the warm teacup in his hands. The temperature is such a stark contrast to how cold he feels, inside and out, literally and metaphorically. The tea runs hot down his throat, and he licks some froth off his lips. He has the sudden urge to cry, thinking he should feel _something_ , but he hasn’t been able to do that except in extremely overwhelming circumstances for years, thanks to HRT. Laurent finishes his tea, cleans the few dishes he dirtied, then heads back to his bedroom to shower.

Laurent strips out of his pajamas with efficiency, not really paying much attention to what he’s doing, and throws them in the hamper as he enters their—dammit, _his_ —his master bath. Turning the lights on, he sees his reflection in the many mirrors in the room. His hair looks like a crow’s nest, the golden locks like straw, sticking up and knotted; the bags under his eyes are purple and sunken, making him look like he hasn’t slept in years, even though he’s slept more these past few months than he has at any other time in his life; the smattering of hair on his chest and stomach peppered with the beginnings of gray strands; the double incision scars under his pectoral muscles faded to be barely noticeable years ago; he’ll never quite lose the faint swell of his hips, no matter how much his body fat redistributes; the bush of hair at his groin has grown longer, a forest out of some dark German fairy tale inhospitable to anyone seeking to enter; he stopped keeping that area manicured once Torveld left, not seeing the point, but now feeling like he’s let himself go, not even seeing his body as desirable. Laurent hugs himself as he walks over to the shower and turns it on. After the water has reached his desired temperature (boiling hot), he steps in, letting the water fall over him from above like rain.

He should probably wash himself as quickly as he can to conserve water, he thinks, but can’t quite force himself to care. The water sluices over his skin in a constant stream as steam builds up around him. This water is the only thing to touch his skin so intimately apart from his own hands and clothes since well before Torveld left, and even then, he hasn’t really had the desire to bring himself off that often anyway. Laurent half-heartedly tries to conjure up some fantasy, leaning back against the shower wall, as he moves his hand down his chest and stomach. Closing his eyes, he rubs his fingers over himself, but after a few minutes, he declares the act fruitless and stops. Laurent grabs some soap and scrubs away any trace on his hand before washing the rest of his body, moving from hair to chest to limbs to face, until he’s done and has no further excuse to stay in the shower.

After brushing his teeth, shaving, and drying his hair, Laurent puts on his terrycloth bathrobe and decides he’s not quite ready to go any further than that. Who else is there to care, anyway? He heads back to the kitchen to get a drink of water and grab his phone, knowing he shouldn’t put off looking at those emails any longer. He considers going into his office to check on his laptop, but it’s Saturday, and what’s the point? Laurent gets his phone and settles onto the couch in his living room. He tries a few times to unlock his phone with his fingerprint, but he’s still pruned from the shower; Laurent feels silly for how annoyed this makes him. He opens the mail app, and, seeing the sender of the unread email, stops breathing.

The sender is Damianos Akielos.

 

_Dr. deVere,_ the email begins, _I hope I am not disturbing your weekend, and thank you in advance for taking time out of your schedule for me. I write to you today, as an admirer of your work, to ask if you would be interested in receiving my senior art students at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and possibly giving them a short lecture on portrait painting. After all, you’re_ the _expert, and we are fortunate to have you in the same city._

_We are hoping to make the visit sometime in early May when they are reaching the home stretch of their final projects. Of course, we are flexible to fit in with your schedule. You can email me back at damianos.akielos@fitzgeraldhigh.org, and I look forward to hearing back from you._

_Sincerely,_

_Damianos Akielos (he/him/his)_  
_Fitzgerald High School_

 

Laurent stares at the screen, looks up at nothing, processing, then reads the email again. And again. And again, not quite believing it. He rests his thumb on his phone over Damianos’ name, where the pressure highlights the letters in blue, a blue that isn’t even that vibrant, but it fills his entire field of vision with color, and, as he taps the reply button in the app and begins typing out his response, his heart—which was as dead as the bird in Sargent’s painting—fluttering in his chest, comes back to life with what feels like hope, hope that feels bright and thick like the yellow of Van Gogh’s sunflowers.


	2. looking at the art teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History repeats itself when Laurent finds himself back at the museum with Damianos after all these years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very dialogue heavy, folks! So, not as poetic as the previous chapter. There's also a brief section of dysphoria.
> 
> And thanks for being patient. I've been moving and job hunting. Brain a bit fried.
> 
> Also, when I was developing the timeline for this, I uh accidentally had it set so that 9/11 happens during the time it takes place? I was really young when it happened, so I don't feel qualified to touch that at all. Very brief oblique reference to it.
> 
> Thanks as always to my lavender wife Brigit/brigitttt for giving me very good feedback. im love.  
> And thank you all for reading!

_He was not that much older than I was_  
_He had taken our class to the Metropolitan Museum_  
_He asked us what our favorite work of art was,_  
_But never could I tell him it was him_  
_Oh, I wish I could tell him,_  
_Oh, I wish I could have told him_

 

_August. 2001. Sisters of Mercy High School. New York City, New York._

It was the second week of his senior year of high school when Mr Akielos walked into Laurent’s classroom. The art teacher, Mrs Martins, was sitting at her desk, already leaving the class to their independent work. Laurent was hunched over his sketchbook, messily working out some ideas for his upcoming projects throughout the year. The figures on the page were abstract, almost monstrous, as the pencil brought them, semi-formed, to life: Frankenstein’s creations, rough beasts slouching towards Bethlehem to be born. His art had taken a turn away from the almost-Renaissance figures adorning the works of previous years; the perfect, classically ideal bodies no longer interested him. Laurent got lost in concentration, mesmerized by the scratch of the pencil on paper.

Then, Laurent heard someone come in the room and whisper an apology to Mrs Martins.

“Sorry I’m late,” the man said. “Traffic was a nightmare. There must have been a wreck this morning.”

“Ah, Mr Akielos, I presume? I was worried I hadn’t given you the correct details.”

The man, Mr Akielos, chuckled. “No, nothing like that. Just bad luck, is all.”

“Well, now that you’re here, let’s introduce you to the class. Everyone,” Mrs Martins said in a projected voice, “I’d like you to meet Mr Akielos, who will be joining us for the entirety of the year as your student teacher.” Laurent put down his pencil and turned to the front of the room. “Mr Akielos, why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself?”

The man was, quite frankly, huge in every sense of that word: tall, muscular, and with the larger than life presence of a king. Laurent could not help but notice how attractive he was, and thought, _this man has no business being a high school teacher because every student is going to develop an unhealthy infatuation with him._ Mr Akielos had the look of someone who only got into college because of his connections, and who probably spent most of his time fucking through every sorority girl who had the unfortunate luck to cross his path. Laurent decided he already didn’t like him.

“Good morning everyone. I’m Mr Akielos, as your teacher said, and I’m looking forward to spending this school year with you. Right now, I’m a senior at Columbia, studying education and art in order to be a high school art teacher someday. Um, let’s see. My medium of choice is watercolors. Uh,” he said, turning to Mrs Martins, “is there anything else you want to know?”

“That should be good for now, Mr Akielos. The class is starting the first project for their senior portfolios, so why don’t we let them get back to work, and I’ll get you caught up.”

Mr Akielos smiled. “Great. I can’t wait to see what everyone’s working on.”

Laurent returned to his sketches, irked that his flow was interrupted. Is it really that difficult to leave a little earlier? This _is_ New York, after all. But he quickly got back into the zone, fleshing out the figures he liked and brainstorming compositions. As he worked, he heard Mrs Martins lead Mr Akielos around the room asking each student about their pieces and what they had planned for the year. Recently, Laurent had started getting uncomfortable talking about his art, and so when Mrs Martins brought Mr Akielos to his seat, Laurent felt himself bristle.

“And this is Laurence deVere,” Mrs Martins said quietly. “Last year, she won a spot in a local gallery show with one of her charcoal drawings. She mostly works in that, or dip pen and ink. I see a lot of Baroque influence in her shading and composition.”

“Oh, that’s awesome,” replied Mr Akielos. “What are you working on now?”

_Something you have thoroughly disrupted,_ Laurent thought. “Um, I’m thinking of doing a Medieval triptych of pen and ink, but with more Baroque style, as Mrs Martins mentioned. I’m still working out the subject, but I’m leaning towards something along the “monstrous body” theme, to sort of riff on exquisite corpse triptychs.” Laurent tapped his pencil on the paper, idly, looking back down at his drawings. “I haven’t really settled on something yet, though.”

Mr Akielos blinked, eyebrows raised, and said, “Wow, that’s gonna be incredible when it’s done.” Laurent looked back at him, and was met with genuine, kind smile, a dimple on his left cheek. Mr Akielos’ eyes were warm, like molten chocolate or smoky quartz, or something else cliched and trite. He wanted to slap himself for letting his thoughts start to wander in an entirely unacceptable direction.

“Thanks,” Laurent murmured under his breath, eager to get back to drawing. The lead of his pencil broke when it met the paper.

 

A few months later, after the dust settled and life was starting to get back to normal, Laurent finally had his bristol paper taped, a light outline sketched on the three separate pieces. He knew that most of his background would be solid black, like a Caravaggio painting, so he had his brushes out and a larger jar of ink. Laurent should probably do the black background later, after he had his figures filled in, but at least this way he wouldn’t accidentally paint over something. Besides, it was therapeutic, in a way, painting broad black stripes across the white surface. Each dip of his brush was an almost meditative act, his mind totally focused on a field of white and black.

“I know you described it that way, but it’s so stark when you finally see it.”

Laurent stopped, lifting his brush off the page so it didn’t get too saturated. He closed his eyes and took a breath, steeling himself, before responding. “I’m always amazed at how violent it feels, that first brushstroke or line.” He looked up at Mr Akielos. “It always takes a few minutes for me to get used to it.”

“I know exactly what you mean. It’s how I feel when I start going in and adding the darker colors in my watercolor paintings. I’m really inspired by Turner, so there’s always a lot of that sudden contrast.”

“Turner, like the landscapes and storms and all that?”

“That’s the one. There’s just something about the sublime, ya know?”

Considering that a storm brewed in Laurent’s heart every time he came to class recently, he knew exactly what Mr Akielos meant.

 

Laurent stood in front of the full-length mirror in his room. Today was his 18th birthday. He wondered if he was supposed to feel any different, but he didn’t have a solid grasp on himself lately anyway.

Grabbing his long blonde hair in one hand, he pulled it back, and Laurent stared at the person looking back at him, wondering what he would look like if his hair were actually short. He had started having _thoughts_ that he didn’t quite know how to handle. Laurent took his free hand and, cupping a breast, pushed it to the side, flattening it as best he could. He imagined himself split in three, a literal exquisite corpse, each part sculpted by a different person.

Laurent moved both hands down to his sides. He took the towel he used after his shower and draped it over the mirror before he finished getting ready for school.

 

Finally, it was the end of the semester. Laurent had finished his triptych: a body on the left panel reaching towards an almost empty third panel on the right, the arm in segments. He was lying on his bed at home alone. There was a cheap poster print of the _Burning Ship_ Turner painting on his ceiling. Laurent looked up at it, letting his gaze rest, his eyes unfocused.

He had been wrestling with his own feelings since August: was it wrong to have this crush? It’s not like he wanted Mr Akielos to reciprocate. People got crushes on their teachers all the time, right? Laurent didn’t think it had anything to do with what had happened when he was younger. What he felt now didn’t feel black and tangled. No, this felt like light among the darkness, like the other Turner paintings Laurent had looked up where there was something tumultuous, something disastrous, but then there would be the moon reflected in the water, drawing the eye to the one bright spot. His future felt so uncertain, but Laurent held on to the light in his heart as tight as he could.

 

_May. 2018. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York City, New York._

Here he is again, standing in front of _Madame X_ like he had all those years ago. Now that Laurent worked here, he stopped by this wing all the time, especially when he was feeling overwhelmed or needed to work through something. He had been visiting it a lot during the divorce. He remembers what it was like, standing here in a school uniform instead of one of his suits, confused and scared and alone. Laurent wonders what that girl he used to be would think of his life now. Would she be happy, knowing she would end up like this? Sure, he’s divorced. And he hasn’t touched any of his art supplies in years.

But right now, Damianos Akielos is walking up to him, a repeat of that field trip way back when. Laurent thinks she would be happy about that.

Laurent had given his lecture on portraiture, hoping he inspired a student or two to fall in love with the genre as he had. Now, the students were roaming the museum, most staying in the various portrait galleries, but some had started making their way elsewhere. Laurent is happy to take his time in this gallery, the gallery he could find with his eyes closed in the dark.

“Hey, thanks again for taking time out of your day to host us and give that lecture,” Damianos says next to him. “Reading your book is mind blowing enough. It’s something else to see you talk in person.”

Laurent laughs a little at that. “Well, I don’t know about _mind blowing_ , but thank you.” He turns to Damianos. “It was a pleasure, and I’d be more than happy to do this for any future classes.”

Damianos smiles. “That would be awesome, thank you.” He turns to the painting, his arms crossed over his chest, and returns to Laurent hesitantly, saying, “so I have the weirdest question.”

“Yeah?” Laurent asks, admittedly a little nervous, but excitedly curious. “What is it?”

“Back when I was student teaching, there was this girl in my class, and I’m wondering if maybe you two are related somehow?” Laurent looks down and smiles at this, already shaking his head in preparation for the explanation he’s about to give. The gallery lights feel bright, but are diffused enough to not cast much of a shadow below him. “Her name was—”

“Laurence deVere?”

Damianos looks at Laurent quizzically. “Yes! How did you know? Well, I’m guessing it’s not a common last name, is it? And you look so _similar_. Is she a cousin, or sibling?”

“Actually, she was me.”

“Huh? She was— _oh._ Oh!”

“Yeah, ‘oh.’”

“I—oh my god, wow.” Damianos smiles, and it’s so wide it splits his face. “You’re my favorite art historian. I can’t _believe_ you were a student of _mine_. Damn, I should put that on my resume. ‘Damianos Akielos. High School Art Teacher Who Once Taught World Renowned Art Historian Doctor Laurent deVere.’” He spans his hand in front of himself as he says that, making Laurent laugh.

“What can I say. You were a good teacher.” Laurent feels a little bit of the pressure lift off his chest. Students and visitors continue to stroll the room around them, yet he feels like he and Damianos are in a small world of their own, and nobody's the wiser. “It was that trip we did when you brought us here that made me decide.” Laurent shrugs. “You told me you thought I had a knack for it, so I took your advice.”

“I think I need a moment. We were literally standing right here.” Damianos points down, punctuating the words.

“I was just thinking about that. It’s a little uncanny, don’t you think?”

Damianos chuckles. “You could say that.” They both go back to looking at the painting for a moment. It’s so nice, Laurent thinks, sharing this with him as adults, as equals. Yes, that flutter in his chest hasn’t gone away, but he’s relieved and unsurprised that Damianos is just as much of a ray of sunshine as he was 17 years ago. He’s someone Laurent wants to get to know, regardless of the outcome. And also unsurprisingly, he’s as breathtakingly handsome as ever. Damianos is softer now, not so much looking like a Greek god anymore, his dark curly hair is graying just at the temples, and when he smiles, lines crinkle around his eyes. He looks like a man who has lived a happy life, full of joy and pleasure.

Eventually, Damianos breaks the silence. “Wow. Wow! I just can’t get over it,” he says. “What a small world, huh? How have you been? What have you been up to these past, lemme see...”

“17 years,” Laurent says with a beleaguered sigh. He was 17 when he met Damianos. Has it been that long?

“17? Oh god, don’t tell me that.” Damianos drags a hand down his face. “I swore I wouldn’t start calling myself old until I was 50. Oh god that’s only 10 years away.”

“There aren’t even any _memento mori_ paintings in this gallery.”

They both laugh, and it comes so effortlessly. Laurent can’t remember the last time something made him feel like this. He manages to talk through the laughter to answer Damianos.

“It seems you’re already familiar with my work. That’s...most of what I’ve done since then. College, grad school, PhD. You know, the usual.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s the _usual_. And I think you’re leaving out best-selling author, award-winning scholar, _the_ expert of your subject.”

“Please,” Laurent scoffs, “it’s not as big of a deal when your chosen area of study is as niche as mine. Not a lot of competition.”

Damianos shrugs, a grin plastered on his face. “If you say so. _I_ think it’s impressive though.” Laurent feels himself blush, but doesn’t try to fight it at all. “What about outside of all that?” Damianos continues, “Is there a...uh...Misses—Mister?—deVere? Any kids?”

Laurent looks away for a second, laughing a little that Damianos thought there might be a ‘Misses.’ It was probably the thing that confused people the most about his transition. “Uh, Mister.” He quickly glances up at Damianos, then away again. “And there was. Not a Mr _deVere_ , but I did have a husband. Torveld Patras. We just got divorced.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. I, uh,” Damianos stammers, looking a little awkward and uncomfortable, obviously trying to think of the right thing to say. “I’m actually going through the same thing right now. So I feel you.” He offers Laurent a half-hearted shrug, and Laurent knows that yes, Damianos does understand how he feels. He already feels so comfortable with him, so open.

Laurent, not wanting to linger, continues. “Luckily, to answer your other question, there are no children involved. And saying he has a lot of money is an understatement, so I got most of our material possessions.”

Damianos chuckles. “At least it sounds like it’s going smoothly,” he says, sounding envious. “Mine, not so much. There _is_ a kid involved, but Leo is 13 now so I’m hoping it won’t be that traumatic for him. And Jokaste and I both agreed on joint custody, so no messy custody battle there. But that’s where the easy part ends.”

“That’s rough. I’m really sorry.” Laurent runs a hand through his hair, amazed a little by course of his life, how he and Damianos have walked such different paths that inevitably ended up converging at the same point. “Who knew one day I’d be discussing our respective divorces with my former teacher?” Damianos turns to him, raising an eyebrow. “I know I’m well into my 30s, but they really don’t tell you this part about being an adult. When you’re that age where people are getting divorced, including yourself.”

“I know, right?” Damianos looks up at the painting and is quiet for a moment, lost in thought. When he continues, his voice is soft. “Life is strange, isn’t it.”

Laurent is struck by the tenderness and nostalgia, and has to look up at the painting, too, to share this moment with Damianos. “It really is.” They’re both quiet, and Laurent relishes in the contentment of everything happening. He can hear visitors walking through the gallery and whispering with each other, can hear snippets of conversations about the paintings. It all feels like something out of a book or movie, standing here like this. Laurent thinks how nice it would be to be able to do this all the time with Damianos, but he knows how impossible that is. Damianos had been married to a woman, and Laurent cannot let himself hope that Damianos is also attracted to men. As he realizes this, that Damianos is, despite being inches away from him, still so far away and out of reach, Laurent is desperate to change the subject. “Well what about you?” he says, abruptly, “besides being a teacher.”

Damianos sighs, and answers Laurent with a small smile. “Got married, had a kid, all that picket fence nonsense.” Laurent snickers, and can sense that despite what he’s currently going through, Damianos is happy with his life. Laurent can imagine Damianos outside playing with a child, the sun bronzing their ruddy cheeks, a scene so blissfully simple and domestic; his heart aches at the thought. “I’m still painting, though. Been in a couple local galleries, but nothing huge.” Damianos shrugs. “I like teaching, so painting is more of a fun hobby these days.”

“Are you still doing your watercolors?” Laurent asks, turning in towards Damianos and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Yeah, I’m surprised you remember,” Damianos answers, likewise turning to Laurent. They’re so impossibly close, yet Laurent doesn’t feel overwhelmed or nervous at all. “I actually did a small show with paintings I did of Turner pieces that I recreated while visiting them.” Damianos cups the back of his neck, as if shy. Laurent doubts that Damianos has been shy in his entire life.

It also makes Laurent happier than he expected to hear that Damianos is still so fond of Turner.

“I’m sorry I didn’t hear about it. I would have loved to come.”

Damianos waves him off with a smirk. “It was a really small show. Basically just my friends showed up. And by friends, I just mean my buddy Nik. It’s no wonder it didn’t cross your radar.”

“I miss more stuff than you would think,” Laurent admits as he crosses his arms across his chest. “Art historians don’t have to get out there as much as art critics. I go to auctions here and there, and of course I try to follow portrait artists,” Laurent gestures to the painting as he says this, “but I’m normally so busy with my own research and curator duties that I don’t have time to follow the scene.”

“I guess I had this view of you going to galleries and being really mean and pretentious.”

“Am I that intimidating? Don’t worry,” Laurent says, amused, “I tend to only be mean and pretentious when I’m buying pieces or negotiating exhibits and all that. I sort of have this reputation as an ice queen, which I love except for the, you know, queen part. People didn’t really take me seriously at first, and me doing anything was seen as bitchy, so I just had to roll with it. But I can get any painting I need for this museum because I’m not afraid of that, so it works out.”

“You? Mean?” Damianos has his eyebrows scrunched up in disbelief. “You had some hard edges back when you were my student, but I refuse to believe that you’re mean.”

“I would demonstrate, but I don’t want to reduce you to tears for reasons that aren’t from viewing the art.”

“Damn, okay.” He smiles at Laurent, impressed, but then looks startled as he glances down at his watch. “Oh, shit. It’s a few minutes past when I told the students we were gonna leave.”

“Didn’t this happen last time?”

“The deja vu is really hitting hard today, huh.” They turn away from the painting and start to walk out of the gallery. “Hey,” Damianos interrupts their exit, stepping in front of Laurent, “lemme buy you a coffee sometime, to say thanks. And also I would be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in talking your ear off about your work.”

Laurent’s stomach flutters. Damianos sounds so genuinely interested, and impossibly friendly. “Sure, I’d like that. It’s nice to catch up.”

“Great!” Damianos responds with a smile. Laurent likes his smiles. “I have your email, but could we swap numbers? Probably easier for conversation and scheduling.”

“Right, of course. Let me just get the new contact started.” He creates it in his phone before swapping with Damianos.

“There ya go!” Damianos says as he finishes and gives Laurent his phone back. “Oh, and please, call me Damen. The only people calling me Damianos right now are lawyers.” He chuckles.

“Now, you shouldn’t have told me that. Just one more way I can prove how mean I am.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Laurent allows his smile to grow wide, and if what he’s about to say sounds flirtatious, he doesn’t care. “Try me.”

Damen lets out a short, breathy laugh, and Laurent sees his gaze shift down a little before shooting right back up to his eyes as he swallows. “I think I’m starting to believe you about making me cry.” Laurent is lost in his eyes for a moment that feels like an eternity. He had forgotten just how dangerous looking at Damen was. “I really gotta get going, though. It was, um, it was nice having you talk to our class today, Dr. deVere.”

“If you want me to call you Damen, then I insist you call me Laurent. Can’t have you calling me ‘doctor’ when we’re getting coffee.”

“Heh, right. Thanks again, Laurent. I’ll be in touch.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Damen.”

Laurent watches Damen leave with the students, then heads back to his office through the various galleries. He’s sitting at his desk, checking his email and schedule, but he’s not focusing on anything except the way Damen sounded when he said his name, and how much Laurent liked saying Damen’s. He says it quietly to himself, through a grin so silly he can’t help but laugh at himself. The name falls off Laurent’s tongue as if it were a word always meant to do so. He starts to drift off, _Damen_ repeating in his mind like a mantra, all the different ways and contexts to say it reverberating in his skull like a holy chorus, full of laughter and moans, sighs and sobs, a cacophony of shouts and whispers the sweetest harmony he’s ever heard. _Damen_ , so grandiose and, yes, sublime, filling him with so much awe, and even terror just beneath the surface. But Laurent isn’t scared, the storm raging inside him turned beautiful through an artist’s touch.

And it isn’t long before Laurent’s phone vibrates on his desk.

 

_hi! This is Damen :-) We just got back, and I have the rest of the day off. What are you doing this weekend?_

_Having coffee with you, I assume?_

_Awesome!_

_How does Saturday afternoon sound_

_I could suggest a place but im sure you probably know somewhere way better_

_I’m not picky_

_Which is reflected in my terrible taste in coffee_

_I think I know the perfect spot_

_I’ll send the map location on here_

_Meet at 4?_

_Yup sounds good_

_And maybe happy hour after_

_Lord knows we probably both need it_

_Divorces are incredibly fun_

_Oh such a joy_

_I need to get back to work_

_Not all of us have the rest of the day off_

_These exhibits won’t plan themselves_

_Oops_

_Sorry about that_

_I’ll talk to you later_

 

_Later, that night_

_Do you miss him_

_No_

_I don’t think I do_

_It was all a sham I think_

_I don’t think either of us really loved each other_

_I miss her_

_Despite everything she did_

_I probably shouldnt have brought this up_

_Probably not_

_But who else are we supposed to talk to about this_

_Lawyers?_

_If I never talk to a lawyer again it’ll be too soon_

_Yeah_

_Goodnight Damen_

_Night Laurent_

 

Laurent puts his phone back on his bedside table and returns to his book, but decides he’s done reading for the night. As he lays his head down on his pillow—finally in the middle of the bed—Laurent thinks about how he hasn’t exchanged goodnights with someone in months; he can’t remember the last time he did it with Torveld. He can’t remember feeling like this, practically ever. Giddy, like he imagines you’re supposed to feel as a teenager. He’s still not allowing himself to think beyond friendship, at least not in any serious way, but even this burgeoning friendship with Damen makes him happier than the best parts of his marriage ever did.

Damen makes Laurent _happy._

It’s this thought that is the last that Laurent thinks as he falls asleep, exploding in his brain like fireworks of crimson and cobalt pigment, the words wrapping around him and holding him like a lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr and discord at thatgothlibrarian. Thank you for reading!


	3. i was just a girl then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a story about settling for what's available. And then, this is a story about love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for getting this out so late. As I've mentioned in some of the comments, I was in a really bad way this summer with unemployment and precarious housing. I have now moved from one side of the country to the other and have a very good permanent job, and life is starting to feel normal again.
> 
> I love you all. Here is the conclusion to this story. Chapter four will just be lovely brief glimpses of the future, but the story is done now.
> 
> As always, thank you to Brigit/brigitttt, my lovely lavender wife, for whom I write this story.

_I looked at the Rubens and Rembrandts_   
_I liked the John Singer Sargents_   
_He told me he liked Turner_   
_Never have I turned since then_   
_No, never have I turned to any other man_

 

_October. 2009. An apartment, Hyde Park. Chicago, Illinois._

Laurent pored over the large, clunky art books spread out in front of him on the table, the eyes of the glossy portraits staring lifelessly up at the ceiling. His chai latte sat forgotten, abandoned after a too-late drink revealed it had gone cold. He had a beaten-up notebook open in front of him, taking notes as he turned the pages of one book, and then another, with his laptop loaded with various journal articles. Laurent had finished his graduate coursework after two years and exams in the spring and was now entering his fourth year at the University of Chicago, hitting the ground running. Now that he no longer had classes to structure his time, he had to treat his PhD much more like a job.

Which translated into Laurent rarely leaving the library, local cafes, the art museums around town, or his own office.

He had the next three years planned out to the minute: write and defend dissertation within 6 years instead of 7, write 200 words a day at least, teach as required, let nothing get in his way. He was already studying curatorial job postings from museums all over the world, tailoring his coursework and research and even hobbies so that he was an ideal candidate when the time came. He wanted to return to New York eventually, but he knew how naive it was to have his hopes that high at the start of his career.

Speaking of teaching, Laurent groaned as he remembered the stack of undergrad papers he had to grade over the weekend. He looked up at the clock. 8:00pm. It was Friday, and Hallowed Grounds didn’t close until 9, so he decided to take a break to replace his chai latte before they closed. He grabbed his peacoat and wallet and headed out into the chill, October night. He hated taking breaks when working, hated interrupting his train of thought, so Laurent kept the cogs in his mind turning as he walked to the student center.

When he arrived, he found it pleasantly busy. Not too crowded, as midterms were already over for most of the undergraduates, and most people were gearing up for parties at this time on a Friday. Laurent ordered a dirty chai––a bit late for espresso, but he still had work to do––and a scone. The barista called out his order, but as he was walking over to grab it, someone bumped into him, spilling leaves of paper like so many hot cups of coffee.

“Shit! I’m sorry. Let me just––” said the man, bending down to collect his things. He was tall, shaggy brown hair hanging around his shoulders, a goatee that emphasized his jaw, a gray cardigan buttoned incorrectly worn over a wrinkled checkered top and khakis. When the man looked up at him, Laurent saw his jaw drop ever so slightly.

“No reason to be sorry. I hadn’t grabbed my chai,” Laurent said, reaching to get his order, “yet. No harm done.” He would have offered to help, but the man had already gathered his things. “Have a nice evening.”

“Wait!”

Laurent stopped. And he wasn’t sure why, but he turned to face him. The man closed the distance between them.

“I’m Torveld.”

 

A few weeks later, Laurent was lying in Torveld’s bed. Torveld was still between his legs, collapsed and exhausted, as Laurent carded his fingers through his hair. He wasn’t sure if this was going to go anywhere, and he really couldn’t afford to be distracted from his dissertation, but this was nice, Laurent decided. Torveld hung on his every word, fawned over him like he was a marble statue. And Laurent could do a lot worse. Torveld was a business postdoc and had a solid future ahead of him. Torveld understood how busy Laurent was, how important his dissertation was, and seemed to respect that, even if he did make jokes about it being in a “useless field.” They had fucked enough times now to really get a sense of what the other liked, and yeah, it was nice. It was _fun._ Laurent hadn’t had fun in a while, he thought, as he pressed a kiss to Torveld’s sweaty temple.

“Mmmph,” came as the response. Torveld looked at Laurent with sleepy eyes. He really had lovely eyes, Laurent mused. A clear hazel, with thick lashes and a thicker brow. Laurent quite liked Torveld’s hair, liked the way his beard rubbed the insides of his thighs red, liked the few strands of gray coming in at his crown. “Hey there, gorgeous.”

Laurent flushed. “Hey there yourself.”

Torveld propped himself up on an elbow and started tracing Laurent’s double incision scars with a finger. “Do you wanna stay over tonight?”

They hadn’t crossed that line yet. It was the Saturday before Thanksgiving break, and Laurent didn’t have anything to grade, so he really had no reason to say no beyond toiletries and such. “I don’t have any clothes with me.”

“You can borrow some of my lounge clothes, and we’ll wash yours in the morning. I’m sure I’ve got an oversized tee around here somewhere if you wanna sleep in that,” Torveld said, dragging his fingers up Laurent’s skin to cup and caress his cheek. “How am I so lucky to get you in my bed.”

Laurent answered him with a kiss, rolling his body on top and straddling his waist. He would go to sleep that night, for the first of many nights, with Torveld’s arms around him. But his dreams that night, certainly not the first or the last night, would haunt him with the arms and touches that never were, and could never be.

 

At the end of his fourth year, Laurent decided to move in with Torveld. Because he’s also an academic, he didn’t get in Laurent’s way. In fact, he left him alone for most of the time except at night, where his appetite for Laurent has never lessened since their first time together. It’s a system that works well for them: they go to campus together in the morning, to teach or study or otherwise work, they don’t always have time for meals together, but they always come home to one another at the end of the day. And it was nice. It was good. It was _really_ good. Laurent wasn’t sure he would ever have this, have _good._

They’ve already talked about where they see themselves in the future, how they both want to go to New York, and everything starts to fall in place. Laurent isn’t one to let his romantic side make him reckless, but he’d be a fool if he didn’t see where this could lead. If he had any family left, Laurent was sure he would have already introduced them to Torveld, just as Torveld brought him home for Easter to meet his brothers. And they’re nice, too.

 

On July 24, 2011, a little shy of two years since they started seeing each other, New York State signed the Marriage Equality Act into law. Torveld and Laurent were still living in Chicago, Laurent with just a year left until he was done with his PhD, but as soon as the news broke, Torveld took Laurent into his arms and kissed him like he never had before. Then, taking Laurent’s breath away as he did so, Torveld got up off their couch and dropped down onto one knee. Apparently, Torveld had bought the ring when the case entered the legislature, just in case.

Of course they had talked about it, of possibly going to a different state, or just waiting to see what happened where they were, or nationally. It all felt a little hypothetical, especially because Laurent had not given any serious thought to getting married until after getting his PhD. But, he thought of that line in Molly Bloom’s soliloquy in _Ulysses_ , “ _and I thought well as well him as another,”_ and Laurent said yes.

A year later, after he was officially Doctor Laurent deVere, PhD, they got married in New York City. It was an extravagant ceremony, with all of Torveld’s family there. Some of their friends from Chicago even made the trip. Laurent said _I do_ , with a little more conviction than he felt, but it was natural to be nervous at your own wedding. Torveld kissed him senseless throughout the rest of that day and night, and through their honeymoon. This must be love, Laurent would think, as they settled next to each other every night. This must be happiness.

Torveld was getting his company off the ground, and Laurent had taken up a curator position at a small museum. Eventually, Torveld’s company would grow and grow, making him a millionaire and then some. Eventually, Laurent would accept a dream job at the Met, and he would be the leading scholar of portraiture, especially Sargent.

And they were happy, for quite a long time. Always at the back of his mind, Laurent wanted something else, something he knew he could never have. But that was unrealistic, and Torveld was a good man. And so, they were happy enough.

Until they weren’t, and that was that.

 

_June. 2018. New York City, New York._

It’s a beautiful summer day in New York. The temperature is still firmly in the 70s, and the sun is shining through the trees in Central Park, the slight breeze ruffling the leaves. A strand of Laurent’s hair blows across his face, forcing him to stop inelegantly mid-sentence with a sputter.

“Sorry, let me put my hair up. I’m sure I have a hair tie somewhere,” he says to Damen next to him as they pause. After a few seconds of digging through his pockets, Laurent finds the band and puts it on his wrist. He pulls his hair back, but the wind picks up and whips his hair in a frenzy.

“Here, may I? You’ll get nowhere in this wind,” Damen says, holding his hands up to indicate his intention. Laurent meets his gaze, a little taken aback. They are firmly in the friends category now, and although Laurent would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t want more, he is more than happy to even have this. They have hugged by now, sure, and shared casual touches, but nothing so intimate as what Damen is suggesting. But he mutters a thank you to Damen after a moment, hands him the hair tie, and turns around.

Damen gathers Laurent’s hair in his hands unceremoniously, but to Laurent, this is almost too much. Thankful that Damen cannot see his face, Laurent lets his eyes shut, his face basking in the sunlight, so as to have no distraction from the feeling of Damen’s fingers carding through his hair as he secures it on the back of Laurent’s head. A rogue strand flies forward, and as Damen reaches forward to grab it, the pads of his fingers brush against Laurent’s temple before following the path against his skin over his ear and back down. Laurent’s breath threatens to hitch.

“There. How does that feel?” Damen asks as he finishes. “I used to help Jokaste all the time, especially when she was pregnant.”

Laurent turns around, suddenly hyper-aware of his body. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

They go back to their leisurely stroll, talking about their weeks. Both their divorces were finalized within the past two, another odd coincidence of timing in their lives, so they’re complaining about how tedious the whole process was. Damen’s parents divorced when he was a child, but he tells Laurent that he never imagined it beyond the fighting and the final signing of papers. Laurent admits to feeling anticlimactic about the whole thing, and he thinks to himself how different their two marriages were. They haven’t gone into great detail with each other about the circumstances of the divorce except that they were both cheated on, but it’s obvious how much love was in Damen’s marriage before it ended, and how much love he still has.

Laurent is a little amazed at how easy this all is with Damen. Naturally he imagined they would have plenty of catching up to do and things to talk about that first time they went out for coffee, but he was a little worried that they would run out shortly after, that once the well of nostalgia had dried up, they would mutually discover there wasn’t much of a point anymore. But no, the well only changed, coming from a different source, but still tasting as crisp and clear as before, conversation and friendship spilling over their lips like so much water. It’s only been a month since that first coffee, but already it’s as if they’ve known each other for years, falling into step and fitting into each other’s lives seamlessly, without thought or effort. Laurent has never had this with anyone, except Auguste, a few decades back. There were glimpses of it with Torveld, but never as natural as this.

Damen has moved on to talking about his son, how the divorce is taking its toll but hey, at least it’s summer and he’s not in school anymore and can process without worrying about that. Laurent hasn’t met Leo, but Damen talks about him a lot, and Laurent already feels himself developing affection for the kid. Damen is mentioning how Leo is starting to discover angsty music to mope to, without a hint of disdain or annoyance, and as he turns to Laurent to share a knowing smile––for who hasn’t been a 13 year old listening to angsty music––Damen’s head eclipses the sun, turning his curls into a crown of light. He could be a stained glass Christ adorning the window of a cathedral, and suddenly Laurent viscerally understands how those spaces inspire devotion.

 

Summer turns to fall without much ado, and Laurent devotes his energy to a new exhibit on pendant art, him taking responsibility for the portraits. The portraits for the exhibition are mostly married couples, and Laurent took extra care to make sure they weren’t all straight white people. He’s quite pleased with himself at how well it’s all coming together, and as he plans the physical layout for the exhibit, Laurent thinks not unconsciously that he cannot wait for Damen to see it. More and more, he gets to consciously include Damen in his plans, in his life. And it doesn’t upset his routine at all. It’s not even that it’s easy, or nice, or natural. It’s that it _is_ , as if the universe is righted now that their lives are mingling. They’re still just friends, and Laurent still wishes they were more, but it’s not even torturous that they aren’t. Laurent’s life is immeasurably better with Damen in it. From the middle of the night texts where Damen asks him an opinion on a current painting he’s working on, to the quiet local gallery openings Laurent has started making an effort to attend, with Damen as his plus one. Damen keeps up with Laurent intellectually, and they have such revitalizing conversations that Laurent hasn’t had with another person so close in years. Damen is _there_ for Laurent, and Laurent likewise is there for Damen. They are such perfect complements for each other, like the pendant portrait prints scattered on Laurent’s desk.

 

“That’s one thing I miss about academia, the regular breaks you get, even if you end up doing work during them anyway,” Laurent says to Damen. It’s a Friday night in December, right around the Christmas holiday, and they’re eating dinner together in a not unfancy restaurant. Laurent remembers the first time they got dinner together, how Laurent had shyly asked Damen, hoping his true feelings didn’t show, hoping he wouldn’t ruin this precious thing they had. How Damen had smiled that smile that makes his dimple appear and his dark eyes twinkle as he said yes. Now they’re regular occurrences. Dinners, lunches, coffee, movies, walks. They’ve known each other for over half a year now, and Laurent can say with confidence that Damen is his best friend. He’s still in touch with Jord from undergrad, sure, but they have one of those friendships that has naturally distanced over the years.

But Damen...Laurent tells Damen _everything_ now. Well, not _everything_ ; there are still parts of Laurent’s life that he has closed the door on. But Damen has proven safe, and supportive, and understanding. After Laurent hesitantly let down his walls for him, any time he has brought them back up, Damen is safely inside.

“I suppose,” Damen responds, “although I only get paid during the school year, so making sure I’ve budgeted for the summer is always a little stressful. I’m glad I still had money saved up from my dad dying while going through the divorce.” He takes a bite of his steak and chases it down with a sip of wine. “That’s another thing they don’t ever tell you, how expensive divorces are.”

“Or getting married. Torveld insisted on this over-the-top, extravagant wedding. Did I ever tell you he proposed when the New York Marriage Equality Act passed?”

“No, you didn’t. That’s actually pretty romantic. Most of what you’ve told me about him made me think he was just a jerk.”

Well, Damen’s not wrong about that. Laurent hasn’t been kind to Torveld, now that the two of them are fully in on why the other got divorced. And they’re at a point where they talk about it without any awkwardness.

“He wasn’t really a jerk, per se. He was...he was actually quite charming when I met him.” Laurent takes a sip of his wine as well, as Damen stills to listen with a look on his face that Laurent can’t quite decipher. “We literally fell into each other in grad school one night. He was this handsomely disheveled postdoc, so confident, and I...I don’t know. There was just something about him that made me reconsider this monkish refusal of dating and fun I had while writing my dissertation. He was the only person I ever let myself relax around.” Laurent is a little shocked at how much he’s sharing, but he knows that he’s safe doing that with Damen, and perhaps that’s why the words flow so easily as he continues to tell Damen about his relationship with Torveld before everything crashed and burned. They’ve both finished eating, but the wine keeps flowing as they talk. Eventually they decide to leave, still talking and happily tipsy. Damen is asking him about the art museums in Chicago when Laurent stumbles on a brick. Before he can fall, Damen catches him by the arm, supporting his weight.

“Wow, I must be a little drunker than I thought. How much wine did we have?”

“I think we were solidly into a second bottle.”

“Oh god, I’m gonna have the worst headache tomorrow,” Laurent groans.

Damen, laughing, says, “are you one of those people whose wine hangovers are particularly brutal?”

“You mean not everybody feels like death made of cottonballs after drinking wine?”

“Well, maybe at _our_ age everybody does, but I certainly didn’t when I was younger.”

Laurent considers this for a second. “I don’t think I did when I was younger either. Damen, why am I falling apart.” He says this, still hanging on to Damen’s arm, sharing his warmth. They haven’t started walking again.

“Because we’re drunk and middle aged.”

“Ah, that would do it.”

There’s a silence as they look at each other. Their breath is visible in the cold December night, the steam melting together. Damen’s breath smells like pinot noir and butter, and Laurent can tell he’s also a little drunker than he thought from how they’re swaying together.

“You know, your place is pretty far away, and mine is just a few blocks. I have a guest bed. Do you want to crash at mine so you don’t have to take a cab all the way back?” Laurent says this before he can stop himself, and now that it’s out there, he wishes he could take it back.

“Wait, I didn’t mean it like––” he attempts to correct the situation, but Damen interrupts him.

“No I...I probably shouldn’t. Jokaste and I are getting together tomorrow to do Christmas things with Leo, just to play nice and not ruin the holiday for him.”

Laurent detaches from him. “Oh. Oh, of course. Right. That makes sense. Do you want me to give you cab fare at least? Call you an Uber?”

“Sure, that’d be great.”

“Great. I’ll wait with you.”

After Damen leaves, Laurent walks the rest of the way back home, completely sober and cold.

 

Christmas happens with Laurent barely noticing. He has no family left, no children, no religious reason to celebrate. Then comes New Year’s Eve, and Laurent can hear the jubilation of the entire city bursting around him as he lies in bed watching a movie. He hasn’t seen Damen since dinner, due to Damen having family obligations, but they’ve texted a few times, mainly Damen complaining about Jokaste. Laurent noticed recently that Damen doesn’t quite talk about her the way he used to, the love morphing into something less intense.

Laurent thinks of new beginnings, and of kisses, and falls asleep before the movie finishes.

 

A few days later, Laurent is getting ready for bed when there’s a knock on his door. It’s so sudden that it frightens him. He so rarely gets visitors, and especially not at this time of night. He waits, hoping maybe it was a mistake and they’ll go away, but after a moment the person knocks again. Laurent swears, slipping on his dressing gown and grabbing a fireplace poker.

He looks through the peephole and sees Damen.

“Damen! Oh god, are you okay? Give me just a second…” Laurent stammers out as he drops the poker and unlocks his door as quickly as he can. He throws open the door, clutching his robe closed against the chill.

“Hi,” Damen says. He’s standing there in a heavy wool overcoat, snow peppered in his curls, cheeks all ruddy from the crisp winter air.

“Hi.” They stare at each other for a moment, Laurent’s hand still on the doorframe.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

“Okay.” A beat. “Shit, it’s freezing. What are you doing here? What am I doing? Come inside. I’ll make us some tea.”

“Laurent, wait,” Damen interjects as they step over the threshold, Damen closing the door behind him.

“What is it?”

Damen runs a hand down his face. “I just got done with a date.” He doesn’t meet Laurent’s gaze. Laurent feels his stomach sink at the confession, a light inside him dimming. Laurent hasn’t dated since the divorce, and Damen hadn’t mentioned anyone either.

Laurent smiles through the pain starting to blossom. “That’s great, Damen. I’m happy you’re getting back out there again. What’s she like?” The words come out a little stale, a little rushed.

“He was great, actually. Handsome, smart, a little bitchy in that way I seem to love.” Damen locks eyes with him, now. Laurent feels breathless. _He._ _Damen’s bi._ Somehow, Damen’s sexuality has never come up during their friendship.

“Oh, that’s good to hear.” Laurent stands in front of Damen, hugging himself against the chill that got let in. “I hope I don’t sound mean asking this, I promise I’m just confused, but why are you here?”

“I…he wasn’t…” Damen pauses. “He’s not you, Laurent.”

He freezes, not believing what he just heard. Laurent already feels himself collapsing in, not daring to hope.

But the way Damen said his name, Laurent cannot deny that: it’s the sound that all art hopes to convey.

“Damen? What are you saying?”

“What I’m saying is that I was sitting there tonight at dinner with this guy, and the entire time I was thinking about what you would say, how you would act. How badly I wished it were you with me. How deeply I’ve known this for a while now. How hard I’ve tried to ignore it, because I’ve never felt this way with anyone. Because I didn’t want to ruin what I already have. Because I would rather have you in my life as a friend than not at all.”

Laurent is sure he’s blushing. His ears are ringing. His pulse is pounding in his head. In the silence, Damen walks to him, closing the distance. He raises a hand, as if to touch Laurent’s cheek, but hesitates.

“What I’m saying is that I love you, Laurent. I can’t...I can’t deny it anymore, can’t go on pretending that I don’t feel this.” Damen drops his gaze, sighing heavily, already defeated. “And you don’t have to love me back, but I just wanted you to know.”

For the first time in years, Laurent feels a single tear roll down his cheek.

He grabs the hand Damen almost touched him with and places it on his own cheek, where it belongs. Damen’s palm is soft against his skin, and Laurent finally allows himself the indulgence of nuzzling into it, ever so slightly. Shaking, he cups Damen’s cheek.

“Damen,” Laurent breathes out, helplessly. “Damen, I’ve always loved you.”

The confession has barely left his lips before Damen is kissing them, the final brushstroke of pure light illuminating the dark shipwreck of Laurent’s heart like a Turner painting.


	4. never have i loved since then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story is over, but life goes on. Here are glimpses of that life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, this is mainly a lovely little vignettes epilogue. Here be some M-rated smut, as well. I hope you enjoy.  
> I've had such a nice time writing this. I'm so happy Brigit gave me the idea, and I'm so happy that I've been able to share it with all of you. Out of all the fic I've written, it's what I'm most proud of. You all have told me that it has made you laugh, cry, all those things. And I'm a little overwhelmed with that response. All I can say is thank you.
> 
> As a treat, I'm including some pictures I took of the paintings mentioned in this chapter. Over the Thanksgiving holiday, I went to England (with Brigit!) and we visited a shitload of art museums, including the Tate Britain and its beautiful Turner Wing. Reader, I cried. And this past weekend, I went to NYC with a dear friend from college, and I roped them into going to The Met with me.
> 
> So I've now seen Madame X in person. Reader, I wept. I spent...too much time in Gallery 771. It's sort of tucked in a weird spot in the American Wing. I knew I had come upon it when I turned a corner in one gallery and saw The Wyndham Sisters through the entryway of the gallery after. I froze in place. I walked in and didn't let myself look at her at first, and then when I did, I just sort of...I can't describe it. The mortifying ordeal of being known through having your friends see you have deep emotional reactions to art.
> 
> On the way to NYC, I read a book about the painting and the woman depicted in it, as well as Sargent's life. It's called Strapless by Deborah Davis. I highly recommend it.
> 
> The Turner book I mention is one I bought at the Tate. Yes, it has erotica done by Turner in it. I haven't read it yet, but the sketches and paintings are lewd and incredible.
> 
> Also, a note about something mentioned in this chapter: there's a tradition of same-sex couples wearing wedding rings on the right hand instead of the left.

_All this having been said,_   
_I married an executive company head_   
_All this having been done, a Turner, I own one_

_Here I am, in this uniformish pant-suit sort of thing,_   
_Thinking of the art teacher_   
_I was just a girl then;_   
_Never have I loved since then_   
_No, never have I loved any other man_

 

It starts slow.

Laurent isn’t sure he’s even been touched so softly, yet so deliberately. Damen’s hands are on his face, his skin, as if choreographed, his body a map of predestined movement. They’ve made their way to Laurent’s bedroom, finally and inevitably, and some part of Laurent can’t believe this is happening. But it is. They’re sitting on the bed together, and Damen is pushing the robe off Laurent’s shoulders as he peppers kisses on his neck. Damen’s tongue is like a brush thick with oil and pigment as he paints Laurent’s skin a flushed red. The garment falls down Laurent’s back, and he thinks about the countless works of art he’s had to remove wrappings from; he was never so gentle with them as Damen is being with him now.

Laurent’s hands slip under Damen’s shirt as Damen lays him down and runs his fingers up Laurent’s bared leg. Their eyes meet, searching for assent before going further. Laurent moves his fingers from the soft planes of Damen’s belly down to the hardness in his slacks as he sighs _yes_ into Damen’s mouth.

Predictably, it progresses quickly.

A montage of moments: the _thunk_ of a belt as it falls to the floor; Damen burying his face between Laurent’s thighs; the breathlessness that comes when Laurent takes Damen into his mouth, his eyes watering like tears of happiness; a crying out when Damen finally enters him; Laurent trembling as Damen makes him come––Laurent loses count of how many times.

Now Damen’s resting against the bolsters on his bed, not quite lying all the way down, Laurent with his back to Damen’s chest. This should feel impersonal, too exposed, but Damen has his mouth nestled in Laurent’s neck, and it’s comfortable enough for Laurent to turn and kiss his lips, look in his eyes, breathe and moan his name in consent. Damen has his arms wrapped around Laurent, right palm spread on his chest and left fingers rubbing down where their bodies are moving together, joined. Laurent’s left hand can’t quite settle anywhere, moving from joining Damen’s, to gripping the sheets, to caressing Damen’s face. His right, however, is spread over Damen’s on his chest, each finger finding its mate, where the ring fingers are both currently bare but where, in a few years, matching gold bands will find their homes.

They come together, and it’s so gentle in its intensity, neither thinking soft intimacy could feel this overwhelming. They come together, and they will never part for the rest of their lives.

Later, they’re holding each other, going from sharing comfortable tender silence to talking about nothing in particular, until…

“Is that––” Damen starts, as he finally notices the painting on the wall, “Oh my god, that’s one of Turner’s Tintagel paintings.” His voice is barely above a whisper, husky and low after so much lovemaking.

Laurent closes his eyes and smiles, placing a languid, satisfied kiss on Damen’s fuzzy chest.

“It is.”

 

“If I have to listen to another trust fund baby try to impress a date by explaining art badly…”

“Love, you were a trust fund baby,” Laurent chides, giggling at Damen’s annoyance. There’s an art walk happening tonight, and they’ve made a stop in one of the galleries on the route. It’s a perfect date night for them because Leo has been invited over to his girlfriend’s house for dinner. He’s 16 now and Laurent and Damen can already tell that he’s going to be a heartbreaker: the girls his age are no match for the combination of Damen’s physique and Jokaste’s (and Laurent’s) sharp wit. They were worried Leo might be irresponsible when he started dating, but when he told them about Feyrouz, how much he wanted to get it right with her, those fears went away.

They make an honest attempt to stroll around a bit more, with plenty of wine to help, but Laurent can see how bored Damen is. To be honest, Laurent isn’t too impressed with what he’s seeing, either. He begins to lead Damen through the crowd, as unnoticeably as possible, and gestures his head and eyebrows in the direction of a side door in silent question. Damen makes a comically relieved face and rewards Laurent with a quick kiss to his temple.

“Oh thank god, I thought we were gonna die in there,” Damen says once they escape into the cool night air. “Are you wanting to head to the next ga–mmph!” Laurent cuts Damen off, pulling him into an alleyway and claiming his mouth. The combination of the wine and the sneaking out has him feeling giddy and juvenile, despite being almost 40. Damen’s belly is round and soft against him as they press together, and Laurent scratches his fingers through Damen’s beard as the kiss ends.

Damen looks down at him, a twinkle in his eyes, and asks, “What was that for?”

Laurent smiles. “Nothing,” he says as he kisses Damen, and again after saying, “Everything.”

“Well, how about we get out of this gross alley and walk around Central Park for a bit?”

“Do you want to link pinkies so people know we ‘like like’ each other?”

“What has gotten into you tonight?”

“Just thinking about Leo on his big serious meet-the-parents date.” He doesn’t mention how he never got that at Leo’s age: Damen knows.

They walk the paths, their pinkies entwined, hands lightly swinging between them. It’s a full moon tonight, and it gives the spring night a magical quality. The air is thick with the smell of flowers from the nearby closed gardens.

The sound of two voices startles Laurent before he recognizes what they are: it’s two women busking, singing the Flower Duet from the opera _Lakmé._ He sees them standing under a light, so he leads Damen over and throws some money into their jar. The song is beautiful, one of Laurent’s favorite opera pieces, and his French is still good enough to follow the meaning.

One of the women sings

> _Dôme épais le jasmin_  
>  _À la rose s'assemble,_  
>  _Rive en fleurs, frais matin,_  
>  _Nous appellent ensemble_.

As the other sings

> _Sous le dôme épais où le blanc jasmin_   
>  _À la rose s'assemble,_   
>  _Sur la rive en fleurs, riant au matin,_   
>  _Viens, descendons ensemble._

He and Damen stand there as the two women sing with each other, to each other as much as they are performing. Damen wraps an arm around Laurent’s waist and rests his head on Laurent’s. The singers smile seeing this and grab each other’s hands as their voices wrap the four of them in a shared moment of understanding, and of love.

 

They’ve been together four years now. Leo has just graduated high school, and they’re spending a summer in Europe to celebrate before he goes off to college. A few days here, a week there, not having any strict schedule. Right now, they’re in London. Specifically, they’re in the Tate Britain art museum. And, most importantly, they’re in the Turner Wing of the Tate. It’s been years since either Damen or Laurent has been here, and they haven’t since they’ve been together. Of course they’ve already viewed the Sargent Lady Macbeth, Laurent smiling as he saw a young boy recreating her with crayon, his paper and supplies spread on the floor. Damen was almost dragging the both of them to the Turner paintings, though, excitement painted on his face as clear as day.

Laurent is standing in front of a painting he remembers loving from the last time he was here, _Moonlight, a Study at Millbank_. He loves it because it’s so different than Turner’s standard work: instead of the dramatic seascapes or storms or epic scenes found in the other paintings, this shows a calm scene of some boats at night, the sky a dark bluish brown with a stark white moon, slightly off-center to the left. It’s not Turner’s finest, but there’s just something about it, something about how calm and stagnant it is, that Laurent finds comforting.

He notices Damen standing in front of another painting, so he walks over to join him. Damen is looking at the piece in awe, mouth slightly agape and eyes bright. He’s standing as close to the work as possible without alarming a guard, and Laurent has no choice but to smile at the sight. He sidles up to Damen and joins him in admiring the work, _Mercury Sent to Admonish Aeneas._ Damen has mentioned to him before that this is his favorite painting, and Laurent can see why now that he’s seeing it in person. It’s such a perfect representation of what Damen loves about Turner: an epic scene, dramatic contrast and colors, but highly fuzzy and impressionistic except for some of the figures in the foreground. Laurent has seen Damen’s recreation of this done in watercolors, and this is one of Turner’s works that lends itself quite well to that medium, and Damen’s own style.

“I just get so caught up seeing all the brush strokes, how all the colors blend and join and combine,” Damen says softly, breaking the silence. “It just reminds me that it’s all light and pigment, and human beings shape it and interpret it as all this...beauty.” Damen says the last word with reverence. This, of course, is not the first time they’ve been to an art museum together, nor the first time they’ve seen each other in front of their favorite paintings, because after all, this all started in front of _Madame X_ herself. Even so, Laurent looks at Damen, time slowing down a bit, and some sort of culmination of the past 4 years together, all the love he possesses for this man, all that has happened in his life and all he imagines will happen, makes everything suddenly shift more into focus than it has ever been, and Laurent feels a sort of sundering, and a settling, happening within him.

“Damen?” He asks sotto voce.

“Hmm?” Damen responds, eyes still roaming the canvas. He turns to Laurent, saying, “What is it, sweetheart?”

In this room, everything Laurent loves about Damen intensifies: the rich dark velvet of his eyes, the thick salt and pepper curls tumbling over his brow, the kindness and passion radiating off him like so much warmth, and that dimple punctuating the small smile that comes when looking at Laurent, just to name a few.

“Do you want to get married?”

Damen looks confused. “I mean, yes of course babe, we’ve talked about this before.”

“No, I mean right now.”

“Now?” Damen asks after a pause.

“We have Leo here, and it’s not like we have family to invite. We can always have another ceremony for friends when we get back.”

They're both smiling. “Why now?”

“Why not now?” Laurent says, happiness overflowing.

Damen tucks a strand of hair behind Laurent’s ear, leaning down to kiss him. “Yeah, let’s get married,” he agrees against Laurent’s lips.

They’ve been together four years now, and Laurent still cannot comprehend how he got this lucky.

[ ](https://ibb.co/TLpTZGv)

[ ](https://ibb.co/HB8F2Z9)

 

It’s their first Valentine’s Day as a married couple. They’re at home, finishing a small, simple dinner that Damen cooked––spanakopita, dolmathes, red wine. They’ve spent the whole day making love, painting together (for Laurent has finally picked up his pens and inks again), relaxing in the bath. Laurent feels flushed, aroused, lazy, happy. His lips are swollen and the cradle of his hips aches. He leans over with a bit of food and offers it to Damen, who accepts it, wrapping his lips around Laurent’s fingers with a soft moan.

“I know you’re a good cook, but you don’t have to be so arrogant about it.”

Damen laughs at the joke, a contagious joy that spreads to Laurent. He cleans his fingers with a napkin, and says, “I have a gift for you,” as he gets up from the table. Laurent comes back with a small book and sets it in front of Damen, standing behind him. Damen smooths his hands over the cover and flips through the glossy pages.

“ _Turner’s Secret Sketches_ ,” he reads.

“I bought it for you when we were at the Tate last year,” Laurent explains. “I was surprised you didn’t already have it.”

“I remember hearing about it in 2012 when it came out, but I’ve just never had the time while teaching.” He turns his head around and up to give Laurent a kiss. “Thank you so much.”

Laurent hums contentedly in the back of his throat. He reaches over and flips through the book with Damen, looking at the erotic sketches and watercolors. They land on the image of a nude woman stretched across two pages. Laurent leans down to whisper in Damen’s ear.

“Would you paint me like that?”

Damen shivers, but answers with a chuckle. “To paint you like that, I would need to get you naked first. And I don’t know if I’m capable of getting you naked without desperately wanting to fuck you.”

“I guess there’s only one way to find out.” Laurent detaches himself and walks towards the room they use as a shared studio, nonchalantly shedding clothes on the way. He doesn’t turn to see Damen’s reaction. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

 

It’s a bustling Saturday afternoon at the Met. Visitors from all over the world crowd its galleries, the young and old, the rich and poor, all taking time to gaze into our shared humanity. There’s a small gallery on the second floor, in the American wing, that isn’t quite as crowded as the others. The paintings decorating its walls are all portraits, all life-sized or bigger. There’s one portrait in particular, a pale woman in a black dress, that seems to stand out from the rest. There’s no bench in this gallery, but in front of this portrait an artist has set up a stool and easel. The artist is a man, his silver hair tied back and falling just below his chin, his skin almost as pale as the painting’s. He’s recreating the portrait with ink, his pen scratching across the paper as he cross-hatches and stiples. Another man comes up behind him, putting his hands on his shoulders and kissing his cheek. This man has olive skin and darker gray curls. There’s an ease between them, an obvious long familiarity in their touches.

The artist sets down his tools and stands up. Taking the man’s hand, he looks at his own work, then at the painting in front of him. He tightens his grip and brings the man’s hand up to his lips, giving it a drawn-out kiss. He rests his head on the larger man’s shoulder.

It’s a bustling Saturday afternoon at the Met, but here, there is only peace.

[ ](https://ibb.co/v34K2z1)

**Author's Note:**

> The paintings mentioned:  
> Madame X by John Singer Sargent  
> The Wyndham Sisters by John Singer Sargent  
> Tintagel Castle, Cornwall by Joseph Mallord William Turner  
> Albert de Belleroche by John Singer Sargent  
> Studies of a Dead Bird by John Singer Sargent
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I try to reply to comments right away, but if I don't, don't worry: I see you, and I love and appreciate you. You can find me on tumblr and discord with this same username.


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